I'm tired
Of these young comedians
Making disrespectful jokes
And stereotyping
People from the south

Especially one comedian
In particular
I won't name

It's not good to stereotype
Any group of people

I appreciate your sense of humor

But stereotyping is disrespectful

He was blown>>>>
>>>> away_--- from
my lace-up
Is She his blue
Mood tie set any bet
to walk the talk

At your own pace
The lustful wake up she
got the face

The edge of his rim sneaker
So prim who is proper
On the brim of ecstasy
He puts sugar on my tongue

Rumors like the "Talking Heads"
All in the bedding sneaker
Jane of the jungle wild tongue
She races Tarzan swinging sneakers
You and I tripped over dreams the sneaker?
Lip to lip disaster

The "Cyberwar" stepped on melting
Gold *** of tar
The loud blaster she moves the
Starwars so far

He could eat her up
his checkered black and white flag
Like a lobster claw his last draw

The racer mouth sponsor

She was born 2-B that way
sneakers love 3 some run
It's not unusual to have fun
with anyone
Her hands were far gone but
solid as a rock
Rollicking flying his rocket
Racing by her own clock Ms. Hornet


His sneaker loud love feud one
the detail on her sneaker
the wild bird of a bud

He shook me all night long
don't do an
A-C-D-C  on me
The sneaker he got the
Crazy eights
 No prank calls
Her hot buns and
Speaker- Frank-flirters
take me out to the
ball game demonized

The Anti Christ be born again
My sneaker group what a tank full
The Antitank no thanks
You cant always get what you want
and if you try sometimes
Charge all plastic but
sneakers like rubber soul

Visa hot runner Lisa no control
The American Express abdominal press
Shop until she drop's gum-drops
Your head was like a
Rolling Stone Jagger
Bigfoot sneaker Friday 13 size
That girl sweet pea Lea surprise
In the Hell, kitchen she snapped
That purr nightcap like Cleopatra

He's the Mantra so passionate fruit loopier
She's the Mona Lisa unfriendly sneaker
Your happy socks are quick
On his bell-hop feet
The sneaker riddle beat


That long meeting so *******
For time baby blue eyes Frank
on the mic
Like the jitterbug tight-knit
as sneaker print rug
Citron sharp eyes 5 Karat
Spicy hot Chili pepper
poem sonnet

The singer swung
Jazzy sneaker band
Dr. Who wears sneakers drinking
Dr. Pepper

The "Red Apple McIntosh" computer
Such a loud mouth hacker Josh
Jeweled Judy cultured pearls sneaker smash

Or her Stairmaster her
sneaker hotties ruffles have ridges
The juicy burgers dill pickles

Desperately sneaking Susan
sneakers to her affair finish line 
What a Lady Madonna
baby sneakers
at her breast rebel of hearts
I wonder how she manages to
sneaker speed the rest

Her best to out twin any talk
bullseye power walk
Buying the triplex sneaker
The loud talker 4 for 4 fame Wendy
Run like a fugitive your alias
name
Go International quite run
for your money I suppose
His sneakers up on her recliner
It wasn't her better rose
She's the high boot lady ever finer

On E-Bay selling your favorite sneakers
Those Australian Huskies biting sneakers
Such a Paws up against doggone heartbreaker

The in-crowd Flynn or another runner Lynn
Everybody is not a star or wedding crasher
Or even the right sneaker lover

Lady that lives in her homeless shoes
Are we all inside a video game
all commercials

Needing bifocals video begins
 Wynn at Sneaker Con
Joy to the world of the joystick
The sneaker of the Torah prayers of
the Temple
All dots and specs out of sneakers
More zits and pimples
I just want one-half cream
The changing Moon 1/2 Wolf
My man (Mr. Drakar) Howling toenail

French onion soup say cheese
her sneaker what a
no-brainer lightheaded breeze
You come so far sneaker trainer
And a grave site plot famous
brand sneaker
name

A million odds to one name in the
cemetery
****** Mary she flies in her
sneaker like Mary Poppins
Going under the influence
Heres looking at you kid umbrella

Hot Hollywood Taurus Bulldog
runner
We really don't have a name

We are writers and ****
good fighters single to mingle sneaker
Not the homewrecker more like the homemakers
Even sneaker has a voice and walks like singers
Shoeiverse sneaker race
became her living curse
The grin of the Grinch green sneakers
On his sled ride the lucky shamrock

I'm the happy heel
The tigress furry feel skip to my Lou
he ordered the
kids happy meal

Getting a ticket for reckless walking
Lights on or eyes wide shut
Are sneakers running for their life?

More fuel- time we get no alone time
Let's go shopping for the
new sneaker called
(Valentine only) sold one
day the sale
Singing her sneaker song a chip
device to talk back hot male
The 'Calvin Klein" dockers her ball of the foot
tennis sneakers It's her loud Owl ******-hoot

The farm girl Ralph Lauren corral
To rope her in lasso-like with morals
racing horse of different color fashion
I cannot hear you I have a hell
of a tinnitus reaction

  She-Devil bickering.>>> No heart like a sneaker
I am a snake too short to run the mile

I was too busy looking
at her long legs
On the Jet** Plane
The most popular lady
in her sneakers 

Viper car and strings attachments
Ms. Love lace the shoelaces
with hearts
She is tied to his ankles
like condiments
Like Sweet cherries what a
bomb kicker sneaker
The Southern Belle runner
Be the stunner the trucker roadrunner

Hail to Mary the sneaker
Queen of Sheba
Turn on the radio Country singer Reba
What a sneaker rating ratio

When she bent down the crisscross
Watch out cross my heart trainer

Cross my heart and hope to die
To get slimmer
I am the happy sneaker
all the moods hot goods
(Hey Robin Hood)
stealing a rich man and poor women
which is the witch

One string said pull me the
other one said you feel like a
Chrome lead sleepy feet go to bed

Like Beer and pretzels
What an insane sneaker hazard
Hospital beepers sneaker virus
stepped on the most expensive
Venus, I beg you to run
lips we travel bullets and stars
We just want some fun

Marathon key just one clicker
That strawberry shortcake
Versus the "Cherry Bomb"
The Prince and the Pauper
what a toad kisser
That army tanker hurry up
lunch or brunch
What a Patriot Brady bunch

My shoelaces became like a
firecracker candy bar crunch

Who is the loser lover
or the winner
The long trip almost at the end
of the race
What a rivalry those shot glasses
at random
The sneaker fandom

Smile to me if you're not
wearing anything
but sneakers
My wings the wifi cute feet just
say Hi

No, I saw a man 600 pounds
of Reebok gold way too
much belly roll fat
The Dr. Seuss cat in the hat

Nike in the air Robin
bird skydivers
Dark matter gold diggers
Movie (It) Stephen King
skateboard

Penny feet relaxer
The Wise clown got her
The sneakers comedians
Seinfeld stand up sneaker
To be dead or wed Kleinfeld
Exotic sneakers and
cars he made a home run
Hot hell ring my bell
You made me happy
I got to first base

And you all sync into
one of a kind sneaker
Mom Robin the singer
No, I saw a man-eating
out of his sneaker
His head up in the Nike air
Oh! all hell breaks footloose
computer looking
up the sneaker sales

All I am doing is clicking
with a mouse
Where is my lover
sneaker twin, my spouse

“The curiosity of the city rings with the death deliverance of grieving mothers and drunk fathers and optimists who claim the world is made, of more than just those two people. This is the Republic and the gates are open for service. Comedians were once serious people like all the rest who were mocked and remained vigilant in the face of despair. Life and death are part of our lives, but not the entirety. Grave markers have no grace for that truth. Summing up our choices to dashes in metal or plastic. What about the singing in the shower? The embarrassing time we were caught ******* or with ****? The overall fear of death creeping over these moments. Where is the answer? I wish Philosophy had a wick, something tangible to grasp onto, but it is no different than alcohol or drugs. Even that is no different than the dash. It only sums up our existence in simplicity. Labels of any sort do no justice to the comedians, mothers, fathers, republics, cities, and or life. In short, this land is the Atlas-cyst.
I look up at the clouds and see the impression of silver cherubs sitting on  flying horses. If they were real, they'd stab the hearts out of lovers from their aluminum vessels.
We are kings and queens of too much.
How many people have died for something that was not the cause—martyrs labeled as abolitionists. But to the illiterate-pop culture they are the heroes. Zealous posters written by apathetic authors trying to call back to the glaciers till the chimes of apocalypse come. The sad songs are true. Pity is polio too sick to bend and too accustomed to power. More than anything it is the simple moments that make the best music."
I remember telling Kaitlyn all that after we had ***.
"Should I continue?" I asked.
"I guess. I do like listening to you." she said.
“Your name is a word, but I think it is a culture.”
“The dark is a force,” she said, “But it is a child  too.”

She was the first one that made me realize that romantic tendencies are as hollow as realistic ones.
She laughs and I laugh. We are slaves beyond truth and defiance.
I can almost hear the old people that were friends of my granddad saying, “Remember your path.”
A failed proverb. Now as my sneakers hit the black top at night I see a messy web in the gutter belonging to a black widow. Every town in America should have a street named after Leo Szilard, the idealist father of the atomic bomb. I wish the one I was walking down now was named after him, but instead it is named after Hemingway. Hemingway St.--
“Everything I want and I couldn't be happier.” Kaitlyn says as she rolls away from me. Almost in cinematic beauty.
Now Sedans pass by playing catchy music--reminding me of the same melody earlier in the day when we were on our date at a local pizza place. The waitress was late with our order and we were making fun of Communism and Southern women on verandas.
“Oh Charles, I don't know nothin' about birthin' no babies!” she impersonated.
I laugh, gather myself, and add, “frankly my dear, I don't give a ****!”
Our giggles and bursts of laughter spawned our waitress in record time.
Later in the night, a ***** sock is still on her door as I leave her apartment. There are things still to be done. We aren't married after all.
I hear sirens in the background, downtown and I laugh to myself.
“Avoid the police! Avoid the police!” I promise myself I'll tell her tomorrow.
As I cross the street and the stench of wet dog in the night becomes second nature to me I add a conclusion to the communist joke from earlier. Imagine nowadays walking around Moscow passing out pamphlets about Communism to Russian citizens. The punchline sets in as lame like a worn lobotomy—no one would get the joke or take it too seriously. It's one of the commodities of sanity.
“You're never angry with me and I like that about you.” I told her once our pizza was delivered to our table. That statement cleaved the conversation to a halt and all we did was eat for the rest of our date there. She is the perfect bride I may never marry—a wedding in a box. Other than that she brings  spinal traction in this rough world—I feel like a man.
3:55 am brings ego death from acid. Not a song for the kiddies, but it is a recycled song for the college kids down the street. Even though the closest college is two hundred miles away. I call Kaitlyn up, she too can't sleep.
“How many times can a woman scream after *******?” I ask.
She exhales heavy when she smiles. “As many as I can.”
I do the same when I smile.
I imagine it all again: “Being absent on death's radar for that one moment. Teenagers dream about it, preachers scold it, tv promotes it, children have no idea what it is.”
“You make it sound so bad. Like ****.”
“It's not bad. It's a faith in a white flag.” I say.
“Of surrender?”
“Yes.” I reply.

The next time I blink it's breakfast, over at her place.
“You have the most fantastic beard.”she says.
The compliment goes down good with eggs over-well, bacon still moist from grease, golden toast, sloppy grits, and hashbrowns flat like a sandwich. I need a cup of coffee to level out her perfume.

No one knows I'm unsure if I'm the one she wants. But I would want her, no breakfast, just her and her aroma steeping in my life till my body runs cold.

“I surrender.”
“What?” she asks.
A torn piece of white fabric lies on the table.


The wine still lingers in my throat an hour after New Year's. The burn creeping down my esophagus much slower than the glistening ball in New York on tv. I taste blood. I wonder if it will last the year. The white flag is now starboard. And there is an opera in my fingers.  That last sentence makes no sense.
I know I am a man with hairy feet, a bruised heart and young. As Ivy Compton-Burnett says, “Real life seems to have no plots.” But it does have star-crossed lovers stuffed in suitcases beside heels and breeches. Traveling along the serpentine east coast watching the world in anticipation. Death can wait. I wonder if the same two people can live in perpetual amazing-ness apart?
I don't know. I can't wait for the answer. I begin, end, and live my life around the words 'and' and 'more'.
She doesn't know I barely move from my bedroom.

ACT I

Scene 1

Scene: A fleet of small boats on a open sea, carrying a flock of poets, actors, and musicians. They row into the distance, searching for land.

fool

Oh, the horror, the horror! The deadly locked eyes, the motionless limbs, the gray lips, telling me it is the end, no more, horror or else. I felt it too, at moments, though something else; what I felt was the sudden fear of death, what might come afterward, and the loneliness of this solitary journey. I had to escape.

Benedict

Yes, those lost half-lives of inevitable and unrecoverable tragedy, the guilt, unable to close in, and so moving away from the sorrow. Turning eyes away from the horror, no, get away from them entirely, let none of them escape with us. The tragedy, the grotesque demons.

FOOL

Yes, let them not chase us toward the end of the vast and endless voyage, and if we die so, let it be quick.

BENEDICT

Quick, by the thundering strike of heavenly signs, let us be at peace.

Virginia

Oh, no more, no more. Leave those thoughts behind, send them to exile as we have been for our refusal of "high tragedy."

Fool

So, it shall-(The Fool stands up, squinting to the distance.) Look! Is that a patch of dry land?

BENEDICT

Yes, our salvation of isolation, our comedic Garden of Eden!(A roar of cheers from all, though each voice distinct on its own.)

Scene 2

The troop have landed on the unnamed island.

Argorn

Here we shall be settled.

VIRGINIA

What a handsome little place!

Katty

Then we shall make it our home!

northworth

Home, yes, but home of what? A wild circus of cowards?

BENEDICT

No, cowards of tragedies but advocate of joy, happiness, and comedy.

Fool

Comedy! We are the Comedians!

NORTHWORTH

Very well, so we are.

VIRGINIA

Yes, laughter and happiness.

Argorn

We shall not only avoid tears, anguish, and sorrow, we shall make them crimes of criminals, we shall uphold only the Highest Order of Comedy!(In the distance, a ship carrying the mimes arrives.)

NORTHWORTH

Oh, look, so the mutes are here as well.

ARGORN

(To the mimes as they arrive.)

Wipe your black tears off your faces! Leave only the red smiles, we are a tribe of comedy not tragedy. (They do as they have been told.) There, better.

NORTHWORTH

Ah, here comes the musicians. (A band of cheerful flute, drums, and violin players arrived.)

Argorn

(To the Band)

Yes, very well, you shall never again play any sad little tune and lure me to anger!

VIRGINIA

Be gentle, Argorn, for only peace shall visit you.

NORTHWORTH

Yes, criminal, anguish, and sorrow, are the horror! They are criminal, criminal!

The band

We promise you only tunes of celebration will be heard on this lovely paradise!

argorn

Very well.

Scene 3

The band plays a cheerful little song while the mimes dances silent to the music. The actors and poets are reading poems of merry endings.

Fool

Oh, her tears, like blossom petals, have fallen and are gone forever.

ARGORN

The sun approves of our sanctum! Look, how the minions of clouds take flee!

NORTHWORTH

Yes, presently they do.

VIRGINIA

Only when morrow comes, shall we be certain of our well-being.

ARGORN

WE WILL BE WELL! FROM DAY TO THE NEXT, THE VILLAINOUS DARKNESS WILL NOT REACH US HERE, I WILL NOT ALLOW IT.

katty

Keep calm, keep calm.

NORTHWORTH

Yes, settle, joy will only come when you are unaware of its flaws and when you take no notice of the hidden misery.

ARGORN

No! Tragedy is horror, tragedy is criminal, it should only be fought, contained and send to exile.


Scene 4

The cheerful tune of the band have slowed with weary into a lingering sad tune, the mime have slowed their dance, and the drawn smiles drips down into a frown.

Argorn nails a notice to a tree. It says, Laws of Comedians.

Argorn

Stand up, you slothful infidels! You have once again turned what could have been joyous and merry into despair!

NORTHWORTH and Virginia

Argorn, you have burdened and slaved them with works of oppression, they are not happy!

The band and the Mimes

Yes, we beg you. Please let us rest, or the music will only be sadder.

ARGORN

No! Rest and what? Allow tragedy to intrude! No, be alarmed, be on guard. We will battle sorrow to the end.

fool

Argorn, only you are the advocate of pain and tragedy!!! You are fighting yourself!

Argorn

WHAT DID YOU DARE SAY?

fool

I dare say, you are what drowns us with slaving pain!

(Argorn advance toward The Fool with a hammer, and knocks him dead.)

Virginia

No, he is dead! Argorn have slain Fool.

ARGORN

Say more, and death or exile awaits you!

NORTHWORTH AND VIRGINIA

(In fear and deviance.)

No, we will send ourselves to exile.

Argorn

And the music!

(The band and mimes quickens their pace, the music and dance does not sound joyful however, but in a rushed mess, it rings of fear. )


Scene 5

The Band and Mimes are lying on the ground, being worked to death by extreme exhaustion trying to bring joy and music for Argorn.

Argorn

Play! Your fools! Why have you all stopped!

(Argorn rushes to where the bodies lay, and stops.)

Oh, are you dead already? Someone else, come and take their place! Don't let the little tune expire!

Katty

(In tears.)

No, I rather be dead to be mocked by your horror! You are a monster!

ARGORN

How dare you cry?

(Argorn kills Katty with the hammer.)

What do you say Benedict, keep the joy alive?

BENEDICT

No, you fool, what do you say is the most horrendous of a tragedy?

ARGORN

Death, I fear.

BENEDICT

Then, who is most foul of a tragedy?

ARGORN

The tyrant of a villain, champion of bloodshed, and one without conscience.

BENEDICT

Then, please, find your conscience, and see around you, the blood, and decaying bodies. What have you done?

ARGORN

NO! NO! I killed them for comedy!

BENEDICT

Yet, what you brought is tyranny, bloodshed, and death.

Argorn

Do you mean I am the villain? Then, please, in the Law of Comedian, execute my execution.

BENEDICT

No, I shall only take my exile now, and leave.

ARGORN

Then, I shall bring peace to this inferno once and for all. (Argorn kills himself, and falls. )

Curtain

and the sun weilds mercy
but like a jet torch carried to high,
and the jets whip across its sight
and rockets leap like toads,
and the boys get out the maps
and pin-cuishon the moon,
old green cheese,
no life there but too much on earth:
our unwashed India boys
crosssing their legs,playing pipes,
starving with ****** in bellies,
watching the snakes volute
like beautiful women in the hungry air;
the rockets leap,
the rockets leap like hares,
clearing clump and dog
replacing out-dated bullets;
the Chineses still carve
in jade,quietly stuffing rice
into their hunger, a hunger
a thousand years old,
their muddy rivers moving with fire
and song, barges, houseboats
pushed by drifting poles
of waiting without wanting;
in Turkey they face the East
on their carpets
praying to a purple god
who smokes and laughs
and sticks fingers in their eyes
blinding them, as gods will do;
but the rockets are ready: peace is no longer,
for some reason,precious;
madness drifts like lily pads
on a pond circling senselessly;
the painters paint dipping
their reds and greens and yellows,
poets rhyme their lonliness,
musicians starve as always
and the novelists miss the mark,
but not the pelican , the gull;
pelicans dip and dive, rise,
shaking shocked half-dead
radioactive fish from their beaks;
indeed, indeed, the waters wash
the rocks with slime; and on wall st.
the market staggers like a lost drunk
looking for his key; ah,
this will be a good one,by God:
it will take us back to the
sabre-teeth, the winged monkey
scrabbling in pits over bits
of helmet, instrument and glass;
a lightning crashes across
the window and in a million rooms
lovers lie entwined and lost
and sick as peace;
the sky still breaks red and orange for the
painters-and for the lovers,
flowers open as they always have
opened but covered with thin dust
of rocket fuel and mushrooms,
poison mushrooms; it's a bad time,
a dog-sick time-curtain
act 3, standing room only,
SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT, SOLD OUT again,
by god,by somebody and something,
by rockets and generals and
leaders, by poets , doctors, comedians,
by manufacturers of soup
and biscuits, Janus-faced hucksters
of their own indexerity;
I can now see now the coal-slick
contanminated fields, a snail or 2,
bile, obsidian, a fish or 3
in the shallows, an obloquy of our
source and our sight.....
has this happend before? is history
a circle that catches itself by the tail,
a dream, a nightmare,
a general's dream, a presidents dream,
a dictators dream...
can't we awaken?
or are the forces of life greater than we are?
can't we awaken? must we foever,
dear freinds, die in our sleep?

There's a private, invisible flock of comedians chanting soapbox knock-knocks in my parking lot
            Noisy, clang, boom thingy aloft and clipping the air around the slimy snow
And why does ajax keep butting its nose into everything I’ve got?
They’re all just boom-lost facades in a canonical, sly-faced rant.
So slanted, frankly, and poised toward a milder pace that the clang clipped the frosty branches beneath a drunken frat-house party.

Ah, the dandy-clang : native to the sandy graves and morose olive branches.
            But only on the night of the dandy-clang, candy dances
for the branches are not partial to missed solid caches
            of want and woe
            of tongue and toe
and seldom shaken beneath the overbearing heat of a white-faced predator
for times it was that here and now, because
the wind had bitten harder
What am I saying?
That if the dandy-clang came. And if it produced the branches of the dancing eve fame...
with but not together. The clouds up in the ether
that lake and earth should wither

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cells wedding musicians greater genitals china responsibility knot jet weapon rottening slaughtered decent stolen goat absolutely tool limit possessions snakes righteous ozone happens illusion bounce shabby producing tumbled equal neurons insect biscuit notion link staircase fulfilled chewing ordered gadgets transporting craves stunned strategy damage fragments borders insurance jerusalem panda lasted cultural sluggish ****** member coins eyebrows contains buddha pointing clever virus overwhelmed acts solve classical fluid media mcdonalds widow cloths russia reported babys collapsing tom homeless nearest calculated humour ravenous boiled depend reject phones earthquakes discuss **** ****** misconception prodigal social jane nasty eats president sipping propaganda super electricity fathom spilled carrots liver bored behaviour fault similar ethics commercials sells boiling mortgage donald tons directly apes gruesome civil french passers theory construct crashes abnormal pleaded hack clan eaters delusions flaunt gonorrhea vegetarian taxes rockets leash ripping rational pirates embarrassing dolphin nationality shipping ****** thanksgiving goods deals hopefully nephew flounder kennel ****** communists erupting haircut gays ku klux chins justin draped cerebral usa ***** puke ***** fraction neutral warren fornication belive batteries stoning chopped buddhism tolerate enlightened antibiotics dependence mae apocalypse irrational vise pets comedians sympathies somalia crises terrorists breakdowns peppermint biological ***** disobedience ****** vandals hippie fakes mac bombing nosebleed mafia infamously lesbians berg stylish pr dubai burgers production cruise commander embryos presidents clones gluttons chock ******* illegitimate iphone philosophical yucatan refuges celine inclusive spam dion sanitary waddling mullahs nationalism karl ***** remix sensationalism psychopaths techno disney www punks bombay pomme rappers stucked elixirs bjork mutilations allright lagerfeld enormously elton rabies damien hirst capitalists ravers idealism salaries allready freddie zeitgeist dictatorships invoice asmile berlusconi scarified subjectivity riped ozzy snobbish bnp mcdonald we're you'll we'll beethoven's god's men's arseholes queen's feet's elizabeth's putin duck's einstein's poppop puppy's pig's buffett warhead self-satisfied post-human poo-poo 15 2000 fannie pictorial laundries ****** mahmoud caliphate woodworks biebers frites wonderfulmeaninglessness mujahedins fwarhols pseudo-subjectivity anti-document exstraordinary ahmadinejad behavelike muthafukas somethingeverybodyreally yourlanguage crucialenemies sayevil alicense yourselfwear thatyoudon'tlike someheavy reallymeancontrol andindulge swastikasneversayaword oneincludingyourself yourselfagunandplaywithknifes eraseany heartace parkistan bashra iq's entertanier 28000000 märsk mc-kinny möller onepays isharshand muthafuckasdrop representingallthat toyesor ifno hintsaboutyour tosmallviolentgroupsin societylet andbeseenamongsymbols ifasked cremaster nothingofthisworks andstrangereligiousbehaviours automaticgunandpoppop getdrunkand oddpoint friendswithodd spreadrumours notunderstand ofviewspicksome intosomeviolence yourselfintooblivionaboutyour surroundyourself behavioursand disrespectfuland dotcom

We are a nation in war
We will not take any refuges
We will only take prisoners
So do not try to step up on our borders

We do not tolerate anything
But democracy and Elton John
We have a Queen and good sanitary systems
The Queen's love and Märsk Mc-Kinny Möller!

We have musicians and even though
They make utterly boring music
And have nothing but nonsense to say
We love them like a ******* nephew

We have rappers; they say ***** and they say ****
We have stand up comedians they say poo-poo
We are about 5 million white species
Producing 28.000.000 white pig's pr. year

We have such clean waters you can't imagine
We have a love so deep you will not belive
Our police force is build on high moral principles
We build everything on pure and strong idealism.

Computer Dog-gone it Bow Wow
Queen of Sheba and Shiba Inu
  The doggy treat paws ring
my bell ring my bell
Looking at my eyes of Apple
will always tell how many
times you're going to App me
Please I don't have time for
games outcrop me or
do not cop out
Paws of  digging some
INC. of Instagram

Uncle Sam took my stocks
and bonds Eyes to my map
diagram
Eyes of the Apple rotten mail
Webby Ms. Debby deleted it

One Nighty gown
Nighting Gale
He's always doing on eye story
(Spy Eye) July 4th  cheese and
******* male
Old news her Eyes Ms. Firecracker
New computer demands
A silence of the Lamb Hector -
Eyes at her doorway
Save my butterfly
The hacker has too many free time

Newsstands on the corner
Eyes of more crime
That computer trucker
Clicks away his I apple
CD covers
The computer I crown thee

Eyes to the doorway
CLICKS City Chicks
Don't want me anyway

All Commands
We know the game
money hands what
a commuter

The web of the eye’s
All we see are walnuts
and apple pies
The computer always on the rise
No computer wiz will get fired?
Like Jeopardy computer high
investment commodity
Steve Jobs the winner
Apples and techno cars
and comedians

Apple web got married gown
Kleinfeld's wed whites computer
to curve their enthusiasm
Jerry Seinfeld made a switch
Steven Universe webby podcast  
eyes crystal witchcraft

Macintosh gold rush floppy disk
Took  a big money crash risk

“New” invention thinking
All pluses
Einstein Web Star
Mass VIP pass
Too many copycats
Brownstone coffee
I pad happy Ireland lads
Ballerina no sleeping beauty
Pancake needed to get work done
Up in the Robin hood Penthouse
Apple Museum
International of excellence
She is so Apple Lisa
the picture with sad smiles of
Mona Lisa

Apple webby

2. SUNDAY bye STAR the news Steve Jobs
Gave a web forecast Hazy hackers
Eyes stormy computer crashes
Computer laptop Cafes surfing
and best beer hubs reading what
on the news with Steve Jobs
Apple I for an Eye
and his last patent Mac OSX Dock
was well granted the day of his death

The big Apple how he started it.
The city never Sleep’s.
I had you fooled?
On April Fools day 1976 Steve
Wozniak and Steve Jobs made history

So robotic computerized
Pixar Animation
studio environment
where excellence to
(Robotic Perfection)
Innovation on an
impossible mission

Hi, Sirprize to your husband bills
Apple web of desires chills
Going through a computer maze
graphically cool sin paired to win

Her brain shines eyes still clicking
Godly animation

Now you were rich
enough to take a vacation
Eyes went up to the heights
No more fighting interface and
Xerox his baby loaded up
like a Paradox my
cream cheese lox
Apple Jubilee coffee
she could soften anybody
Until you love the
Software apple
the product of computer sky?
Robin’s Risque eyes
deeply web- bye
Tower upload.

The best Apple eye reload
ferocious love suitcase of
computer products flight
Megababes Queen we
are the Champion
and hardware prowl like a
Smart crime no yellow tape
That sophisticated owl moon
computer ***** cried Wolfie
She was howling Apple selfie
eyes red fire has driven

Supermoon so blessed
caress nuanced
Word’s spat cheetah cat
Web milk me the succession
Apple Web goodbye never
Buying Xerox stocks forever
Macintosh Floppy Disk
New world tasks
“Love” 1/2 Grain “Orient Express”
she spoke like the speeding link.

He got hooked what a
((Chrome Apple))
Uncivilized phone silverized
or Clone senior citizen or exotic
black cheetah list
Hew-let Packard flavor
couldn’t resist what an enterprise.

It’s all in the Apple eyes

I Apple of her eyephone we
need earplugs (Adam and Eve)
have some nifty spark plugs
Hub purr personalities
eye’s “Software”
Cat’s Eye has nine lives
of responsibilities
Love of art computer theater

He’s Stocks her sweet candy
but he had the
  Einstein's eyes such mass and gravity
a good set of lungs webcomic

Her silk detailed blouse
got caught in his apple martini
Extra news story read all about it!
Carriage rider what a glider
took her baby-computer
traveler soft hand
met her Gulliver travel

He computerized her love clicks
Gave her new baby chicks
more living to do on Google
I rather have my Moms Kugel

/               listening to lionel nation:

    a lawyer...

     and i... seriously can't tell
the difference

between what a lawyer
calls a play-on-word,

             and what a poet is...

who the hell needs to ingest
psychadelics,
   when you can listen
to a (probably) retired lawyer?

i appreciate that people
like stand-up comedians,

        or what's called cabaret
humour in eastern europe -

nope, no stand-up
       beckettesque: monologue
humour in some parts
of the world...

cabaret comedy?
                  a... dialogue...

but it's not like i'm
a scholar and will write a book
about this minor observation...

lawyer within the ratio comparison
of a poet?
    can't tell them apart...

the EU hinges on monetary
transparency...

fidgety with an algorithm,
entry:
  greek act of putting coins on
           the eyes of the dead...

apart from charon (karon,
no, chitty chitty bang bang)

       i guess that's what
nietzsche called the alchemical
principle, the book he never wrote,
but anticipated:

about the transvaluation of
all values -
                 id est: the second tier
of the gold standard,
the concept of money
  transvaluates:
   id est: translates a value of
something,
into a value ascriptive
purpose of another...
  
  then comes the description...

britain was always
in an informal agreement
with the EU,
given that it kept its currency...

it was never a formal bond,
inscribed with the sharing
of a collective currency,
    there was no vote to begin with,
the import of eastern european
labour coincided with the fact
that british children experienced
the cold sweats of:
   having to fall into a victorianesque
bbq of manual labour...
instead staging madness...
    
   england always retained
its currency... so what the ****
is blalxit?
         on an island,
   with its own currency...
   a bwehxit would have truly
happened, had britain adopted
the euro...
   the rest? a smokescreen.

- but there is no actual noun
to "decipher":
greek act of putting coins
        on the eyes of the dead
put into the griding machine
of words that is an algorithm...

a rite, but no name for the rite?!
seriously?!

there's is no name for it...
hence this poem, as a counter
explanation...
   a zeno paradox
coinciding with the example
of achilles and the tortoise.

i appreciate the ancient greek
analogy:
  or rather, "ancient":
in that... it was a... age of curiosity.

came the satanic dark ages,
came lucifer's enlightenment period...
where the **** are we at?
did we skip a part, a page,
a "something" from
inscribing humanity's autobiography?

no... but we are alive,
          and we are outside heidegger's
sense of dasein...
         having moved into the domain
of                   jetztsein...

considering the fact that,
german, as a "language" with regard
to how to define space...
    in translation in english (of course)...

    zeit... sure, time...
but space?
        raum?          oh right... roam?
nein nein nein!              oh... room?
                       das ist alle?

hence the second composite of time,
outside the casual expression
'there was a time... when...'
           akin to the: once upon...

no here, no there... jetzt!

p.s.

   well yeah... carpe diem in "reverse":
or as i like to call to -
immaculate immediacy -
a trance stace of waiting and waiting,
but never actually awaiting
anything, to be particular.

One morning, I decided to ask people what their favorite myth is. I asked them what myth did they think was the greatest, and the one that made a huge impact on them. The most interesting one, the myth that would keep you wanting for more. Some people said vampires, some people said dragons, some said the origin of the world, and of course, most of them said the famous Greek mythology. And I asked some, what myth do they think is the most unlikely thing to happen, what is the myth that will never be real? And I was taken aback when some said their favorite myth was **** culture, followed with laughter. As if it’s a myth, as if it’s fiction, as if it’s something that isn’t real.


**** culture is a myth. It’s not real. It’s not happening. Apparently, it’s just a work of fiction for some people. Apparently it is a myth when it’s happening everyday. It is a myth when you report it to them, and instead of asking “Are you okay?”, the first question they will ask is “What were you wearing?”. Because your skirt was the reason, your sleeveless top was the one that gave them permission. And when you told them you were wearing sweatshirt and pants, they will ask you “Were you drinking?”. When someone took away something that is yours without consent and you’ll be the one blamed. Because you were wearing shorts, because you were drinking, because you were just outside. When we teach women everything about not getting ***** but we don’t teach men to simply not ****. When our bodies are nothing to you but to objectify. When you see us and think the word sexualize. When they asked you whether you said no or stop, and if you didn’t, you liked it. It was consensual. But you never said yes, and it’s not ****, right? It is not real when people shame the victim, when the help people are giving you are words such as “****”, “*****”, and instead of calling you a survivor you will be known as “the girl who was asking for it”. It is a work of fiction when nothing happens to the ******, or when some even refuse to call that person a “******”. You will see headlines describing him as an athlete, as someone who has scholarship, any good thing but ******. It is a myth when the ****** runs free, but the victim is still suffering and constantly being shamed. It is a myth when the world thinks men who are getting ***** are weak men, when they don’t think the consent of men are also important. When people continue to joke about something that can ruin someone else’s life. Apparently all of these things aren’t real, these things aren’t happening.



But how could one person even think that **** culture is a myth? That **** culture doesn’t exist? It’s not like the trojan war, because it’s far more chaotic. It destroys and kills people. It lets bad people win and victims suffer. It’s not like vampires who don’t sleep and **** people’s blood, instead this is even more dangerous than vampires. This normalizes something dangerous, something horrible. And the people who do it, who contribute to it, and who do nothing to stop it? Are worse than monsters in mythology. And why would we even call it a myth when we learn something good in myth? When myth teaches us something good in life? **** culture is not a myth, **** culture is happening everywhere. When you turn on the television and see comedians joking  about ****, when people call the **** victim they know a ****, when people don’t believe someone when he/she reports it to them, when until now, **** is still considered inevitable. **** culture is not a myth, **** culture is real, **** culture is happening. And they say **** culture is part of the reality that we have to face, but what do we do to things that bring us no good? To things that damage our reality? We do everything we can to stop them, to destroy them, to crush them. And that needs to happen to **** culture,  **now.

we hear the dancing men giggle,
**** cloth comedians
two Tarzans twittering
like nightingales singing in berkley square
their female wrestling partners
as bereft as any whale
longing for ruby rings
to signpost the hell out of there.

Throw away the negative thoughts,
I now stopped beating myself up.
I find some good make-up
to cover up my black and blue
all over my face.
I choose to think of comedians
forgetting the drama queens.
Be honest but never
******* myself.
Optimistic
is what I will
and what you
can now call me.

We really couldn't afford it
but I got the tickets anyways.
We hadn't been out of the apartment
for months
didn't have money to go do anything
ever.
Louis C.K. was our favorite comedian
so I figured it'd be worth it
even if we had to live off
grilled cheese for the next week
it'd be worth it.
To be able to forget everything
the bills, the jobs, the ******* stress,
to escape that
even for just a couple of hours
and laugh our ***** off
would do us a world of good.
So I kept it a secret
wanting to surprise my lady
and give her a thrill.
Told her we were going to
downtown Phoenix
to get a drink and do the Charleston
at a 1920's themed bar.
On the freeway
just after sundown, we were headed to the theater
guided by the GPS on her phone.
We both were having full blown
panic attacks
the cars & trucks whizzing past us
at over 80 mph, bumper to bumper traffic
and we missed our exit.
The GPS re-directed us
and we pulled off at the next exit.
"See we need to get out more.I haven't been around this many people & cars in so long...ugh. It feels like we're gonna get in a wreck."
But I knew we weren't. I felt nothing inside. No butterflies.
"Alright, the GPS says to make a left turn, up here, at Adams..."
I said, navigating her through the old & dark
downtown Phoenix streets.
"A left here?" She asked.
"Yeah, that's what the GPS says."
"Okay."
Just when she went to turn
I saw the one-way street sign
that and the truck coming right at us.
"****! No, no, don't! This is a one-way street!" I yelled.
She ****** the wheel back to the right and we continued straight ahead.
"*******! Why didn't you tell me to turn down a one-way street?!"
"Hey it wasn't me. That's just what the GPS said!"
The machine kept talking, "Up at....Jefferson...make a....left...turn."
But it was another one-way street
that machine didn't know what the **** it was talking about.
I shut it off and threw it to the floor.
"Why'd you do that?"
"That ******* is gonna get us killed. We're only a block away now, I can get us the rest of the way there....alright, just pull up here and park it.
We parked on a deserted, dark, lonely street
in front of an old school house from the 1920's.
The two of us got out and walked the block to the theater.
As we approached the front, with the big sign that spelled out,
'Louis C.K.' in big, digital, yellow letters.
My lady started asking questions.
"Wait, so what are we doing? Just getting a drink and going home? I don't think I can drink, if I gotta drive home on that hectic freeway. Ugh. Is it too much to ask, to just have fun? Just for one night..."
"No darlin', it's not. That's why I got the tickets."
I said, standing under the marquee, a big ****-eating grin plastered on my face.
For a moment
it didn't quite register with her.
"Wha-what? Seriously?! Are you ******* with me? You better not be joking."
She said, unsure if I was joking, like I usually was.
"No honey. It's no joke. I mean, they're just balcony/nose bleed seats--"
With people walking & rushing all around us
she pulled me in close
smiling up at me
with that million-dollar smile.
She kissed me, like in the movies, pulling me in tight, grabbing my ***,
our tongues **** their little dance in our mouths.
"Baby, you really know how to make a gal feel special. First, roses this morning and now you surprise me with tickets to Louis? I love you, so ******* much, Danny."
Inside we sat with the other poor folks
packs of middle-aged couples
groups of teenage boys
and geeks in Star Wars t-shirts.
It was a great sight.
Strangers striking up conversations
with one another
all laughing and smiling
talking about their favorite Louis C.K. bits.
Finally
the comedian took the stage
after a roaring, packed house, standing ovation
everyone quieted down respectfully.
And for the next two hours
we didn't have any
bills
rent
electricity payments
jobs
*******.
Just laughs to be had.
And it was so great
like gospel
everything we thought in our heads
everything the two of us talked about at home
everything that made us crazy with anger
he was up there
talking about it all
reaffirming what we already knew to be true.
Dumb parents that didn't discipline their kids properly
how when you try to delete your Facebook, it sends numerous pop-ups
trying to get you to log back in
and stay connected.
That night the comedian
was able to help us forget our troubles
and laugh at the *******
society continues to eat up.
Comedians, poets, musicians,
these artists should really be called
therapists
because those two hours of sitting & laughing
did so much for us.
By the time we walked back to the car
on that deserted, dark, lonely street
we felt better.
A weight had been lifted
we could breath a little easier.
Standing by the car, I put my hands on the waist of her dress
and pulled her close to me.
"So were you surprised? Did I show you a good time honey?"
"Danny that was the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. Thank you for making it a surprise. You really got me."
And we kissed.
In front of that old school house
with it's huge white pillars
and a yellow light overhead.
A cold wind blew.
"I'm glad you had a good time darlin'. Now let's get in the car and get outta here...before we end up like Bruce Wayne's parents."
We really couldn't afford it
but it was okay.
The rent could wait another week.

Its more than a feeling when its come down to the finish and even a worse one when you realize its time to start yet again.
Like some sick version of twisted game show your always in reach and anytime your desperate the ****
will gather to praise your failure.
The bottle filled glory days a dinosaur who's back id long fell of of trying to stay in the groove simply has left me with more scratches than  I care to speak of so **** the logic in this I preffer a good ******* covred lie instead.

Hell wasnt a fire laced horror theme it was a emptyness beyond anything a normal man could ever imagine.
Good thing I would never fall under that title.

We were somewhere in Maryland the bar a afterthought now and are drunken thoughts had left us silent to
ramble in are own personal hells we tried to convince others didnt exist.
As for the big payoff well .
If half empty shows and being more broke than when you left was a sucess then we were true diamonds at this point.
You give it all out there only to question do you have a home to return to.
And Martin was a wounded solider broken from a quick text once read.
Ive had enough I wont be here when you return.

And as he was broken we did what any self absorbed ******* who couldnt face what could be us would do.
Drown in vices and cracked jokes over are friends misfortune and tried to make sure we didnt get to much of his misery to
**** are buzz.

For me it was the usal some quick drinks some soon to be forgotten conversations with women I'd seldom
recall gotta keep chasing that good time cant let the boys see your reallity or you'd fall and
never do you wanna show weakness in a pack of wolves .

Robert was always the same a crash and burn ****** who started fights and had to be half loaded to even greet the day.
Once I saw the geinus behind what had now became the running joke of the group.
The tide had long since returned to the ocean  and left him trapped apon the shore.

We all knew he was a dead end street but he paid his way and as long as we could scam a few bills from him
we used him without regard it was the worst kind of cutthroat you could imagine.
All in the name of a good laugh.

Being said that only left me and Tony to keep this **** togather we rode long hours and made little money but just like sharks if were still moving with some drugs in are system were still doing good.


My head against the window rains steady rythm kept me company  in this silence I could allow the ******* guard down.
Count the laughs and ignore the bombs  **** it was a bloodthirsty scene in south Boston lastnight.
The crowd intent on breaking you and getting down watred down drinks overprized and as shallow as there
owners for the moment.

Why the **** was I here stuck in a prison with four wheels rolling steady and praying not to get pulled
by the cops and wondering if anyone of us could lie well enough to be trusted to drive **** knows
the best driver had just been hitting the pipe a hour ago.
And I really didnt think my flask in side pocket would be a charming insentive to some officer who hated dealing with a
car filled with drunks and junkies.

So what you boys do?
I could hear this converstaion playing out.
Were comedians  just heading home officer been on the road awhile.
Oh yeah you boys any good?
Well as you can tell from this fantastic 1999 minvan crap mobile were driving  were  a great sucess.
You being a ******* boy?

Some people never get the joke.

The miles passed and soon were bound for are corners.
Off from the battle left only to crawl in
broken down hovels and lick are wounds with whatever drugs we may have left laying around.
And as for me I'd just turn off the lights and sleep.

In the dark nobody touches my often semi burnt out thoughts.

And as the days bled one into the next I'd  tell myself ***** it Im done!.
But bad habbits and that insane thought of what if is a real ******* at times.
And really what else besides the page could ever bring me the misery and false happiness I so desired.

Soon like some worn out race horse id be at the starting gate again I could only run till I drop.
Why do it you may ask?
Cause its just who I am the crowds a drug like any other and that one night of connection
is more of a rush than any needle to arm has ever been.

The finish line never means **** when you know inside.
All that leaves you with is another time to begin.

Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer were a very notorious couple
     of cats.
As knockabout clown, quick-change comedians, tight-rope
     walkers and acrobats
They had extensive reputation. They made their home in
     Victoria Grove—
That was merely their centre of operation, for they were
     incurably given to rove.
They were very well know in Cornwall Gardens, in Launceston
     Place and in Kensington Square—
They had really a little more reputation than a couple of
     cats can very well bear.

If the area window was found ajar
And the basement looked like a field of war,
If a tile or two came loose on the roof,
Which presently ceased to be waterproof,
If the drawers were pulled out from the bedroom chests,
And you couldn’t find one of your winter vests,
Or after supper one of the girls
Suddenly missed her Woolworth pearls:

Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
     they left it at that.

Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a very unusual gift of the
     gab.
They were highly efficient cat-burglars as well, and
     remarkably smart at smash-and-grab.
They made their home in Victoria Grove. They had no regular
     occupation.
They were plausible fellows, and liked to engage a friendly
     policeman in conversation.

When the family assembled for Sunday dinner,
With their minds made up that they wouldn’t get thinner
On Argentine joint, potatoes and greens,
And the cook would appear from behind the scenes
And say in a voice that was broken with sorrow:
“I’m afraid you must wait and have dinner tomorrow!
For the joint has gone from the oven-like that!”
Then the family would say: “It’s that horrible cat!
It was Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer!”— And most of the time
     they left it at that.

Mungojerrie and Rumpelteazer had a wonderful way of working
     together.
And some of the time you would say it was luck, and some of
     the time you would say it was weather.
They would go through the house like a hurricane, and no sober
     person could take his oath
Was it Mungojerrie—or Rumpelteazer? or could you have sworn
     that it mightn’t be both?

And when you heard a dining-room smash
Or up from the pantry there came a loud crash
Or down from the library came a loud ping
From a vase which was commonly said to be Ming—
Then the family would say: “Now which was which cat?
It was Mungojerrie! AND Rumpelteazer!”— And there’s nothing
     at all to be done about that!

there's much gesture in thinking out the nonsensical,
the un-thinkable - the un-pardonable - with sheer gusto
you tend to think out the unsolvable -
the nonsense people are afraid to
think about - the impractical -
and that's for one reason alone -
                  it doesn't create real problems...
you do not engage with real struggles
people encounter - because by doing
all the above stated... you are not the one
who says to a person: you can't do this,
and you can't to that.
                 which is why i don't understand
the English aversion toward philosophy:
say the word, and the English immediately
succumb to the notion of pedantry and
snobbism - when in fact: it's hardly that -
          perpetually philosophers entertain
themselves with invoking awe, as with ageing,
and seeing the many pitfalls of romance
and comedy and tragedy... awe becomes
very hard to find... it's simulated ignorance
in a way... for example Heidegger championing
Aristotle is a gesture intended in this direction -
and his concept of dasein is another
way to stage a coup against the world...
              it's an antithesis to what would otherwise
be regarded as activism... or more piquantly:
hedonistic activism, which primarily encompasses
staging a higher moral authority -
but never reaching for the fist making a signature
for the cause... that phrase: just empty words...
and humble pie. well... if you're a bachelor,
have this instilled aversion toward having a private
relationship with women: suitor - Kierkegaard -
well... you are bound to create pointless problems...
because... to be honest... you'd rather throw
"imaginary" problems into the metaphysical arena
than sit there... as a competent English gentleman
and speak of philosophy with about two or
three terms... reality... god... monkey...
                  or at a chessboard with a desire to provoke
a telekinetic pandemonium.. x-men apocalypse and
all that ****** imagery...
                             it's odd... but it's just so...
the English had an idyllic life,
                                      as any island dwellers might...
which is why they don't like impractical problems...
because they blabber about practical solutions,
to practical problems... that never get solved,
i.e. engrossed in more politics than anything:
the English have no ear for philosophy -
the mere word frightens them should anyone admit
to being the stated adherent: for god's sake,
the Scots are perceived as barbarians with the
deep-friend Mars bars (and pizzas) - but Hume
rang the eardrum in Kant's ear... and wallah!
a new chapter... Locke? only Darwinism,
popularised with images, as they say:
best leave these skeletons in the closet.
                             what am i working up toward?
well... it's a bit specific...
                                     first... the easiest proof
of solipsism... a crowded train... someone farts...
     guess what... the person who farted is
the only person on the train who appreciates the stink...
            hence: the theory - you like your own -
hence the abstract of the self, competing for a theory,
the self - as an optical itinerary: from head to foot,
from hand to toe - a long list of self-serving
          accomplishments in detailing all acquired
difference...                    but it's not about that...
          for all the reasons that life can become perfect...
at precisely that moment people began to
philosophise -                       and that condemnation
of reading a book on the topic in youth
rather than old age?        well... the glory of old age
is kinda slipping away...    if not now? when?
obviously you might jump the wagon too eagerly...
but at least you'll soon realise how
    a philosophy book (excluding Plato) can actually
help you in forming a dialogue -
                       i think that's what they teach primarily,
the art of dialogue... not the art of persuasive speaking
(rhetoric) - but the art of dialogue... after all...
   Plato... right? all dialogue...
                                  and they do: it only takes one book
in this literary region, i became convinced of it
after only being introduced to the subject area quiet late
in life (21)...        prior to that? fiction and poetry...
   and science... nothing else...
                              like a fish to water...
the necessary 21 years of strain having avoided the subject
(not on purpose, mind you).
                  yes, a glorification, why not?
     it's because these nonsensical problems arrive
as a reflection of a defence mechanism...
     the English don't like "too many words" or
the continental verbiage they coin as the psychiatric
phrase word salad - precisely because, sometimes,
language is not about entertaining someone with
tragic choke-jokes and songs...
          great singers, great comedians,
   great engineers... but in this field? obnoxious *****.
  the English are the first instigators of
     enshrining a quicksand pit of a person's
esteem in his ability to use and comprehend language,
primarily because they can't comprehend
the complexity of language being thus expressed
they immediately conscript against him
    this... odd... quack-wacky need to teach
the person in question refer himself to the Jane Austen
clinic of correct language parameters -
            nothing beyond! nothing foreign and
original! we need novelists who only travel in
straight lines (preferably on a Benelux plateau)
        and never dazzle with a tarantula bite of
disorientation (akin to the cut-up method)...
        and you will find that the English are primarily
concerned with making people suspicious of
   their sanity... strange... i once had a work-horse
work ethic and that became undermined,
                       then my use of language became undermined
because, as already stated: the English don't
do impractical things with their thought:
                it has to be practical...
like the Germans and time... everything has to be
efficient... or the Japanese and space (*******
cardboard sized hotel rooms)...
                             which brings me to the point of my
original intention:
                 deleuze's and guattari's searching ambition -
the anti-oedipus, or: body-without-organs...
             in turn the dark ages of Cartesian thinking (in England)
or how            mental health is somehow a lesser
   health to physical health -
                 sweat... and exocrine glands v. endocrine glands...
    <yes, telegram mode, precursor to a detailed
        explanation>
                                i'm just proposing what i dare believe
to be a thought-object, or more precisely a
             thought-***** -
                    no point looking for a shortcut with this,
      it's either the sort of verbiage compound you'll
reason with... or you'll treat it as *******...
                     as ever, whether that's investing in
a gym membership and a suitable diet...
         you won't get the ****** six-pack on your torso...
  this concept is reserved for what i find problematic
in mental ailments - which, in turn... somehow,
"miraculously" translate into physical ailments -
           but of course, amputees get the priority seats
in the eyes of every Jack and Dolly... because it's easier
that way...
                        my back-reading in psychiatry? well,
it's not exactly limited... on the plus side -
a theory is nothing more than a placebo trial -
                   you're not thinking about it being effective,
that's the default point of applying thinking where
pharmacology cures are pretty crap and its side-effects
catastrophic... and talking therapy ends up being
a monologue with a table filled by notes with single
words on them and being asked: to identify their meaning...
anyone who has experienced these practices
can also say: i'm actually conscious you're making me
feel like a ******* ******... you've just insulted my
intelligence... and i'm back to square one at kindergarten...
   have you ever watched you-tube frustrations?
well... a thought-***** has nothing to do with
    that map of the brain...
                                feeling goes here,
  seeing goes here...             a mash-up and a mess akin
   to the map of the European union...
          because some rich boy scumbag drew it
in crayon at the beginning of the 20th century means
it has to be right...
                                  but if i treat thinking as a thought-*****,
i know how the ***** works...
            a heart is a muscular pump...
  the stomach is a digestive acid swamp...
                        the esophagus is stretch-armstrong...
should i feel guilty writing about this?
          should i? touchy subject? well... you won't
find any pills around here... well, apart from the sleeping
pills... they're sacred (to me, at least, as if the bourbon,
but that's my private affair... you walk down this
route: it heals me... not necessarily you) -
  this is to simply end the whole pseudo-Cartesian dichotomy
of philosophy popularised by psychology and
psychiatry - for these two areas are bound to simply
popularise philosophy... and given that most people
don't read a book in that area... it's easier to manipulate
people in therapy with the knowledge passed down
from on high.
                                       and it's there...
the dichotomy parallelism is primarily due to the fact that
most people think of the brain with two categories:
a. when physical pain strikes it (a headache)
and b. when physical pain is absent (with what ease
    they think)...
  the problem lies in the perception of b.,
most people can conceptualise that there's something
deeper than the raw physicality of things...
i do remember times when i encountered that
ease of thinking...
                                        i experienced it...
it was there... ****, i lost it... but that provided me with
an un-inhibitory trance of a writing capacity...
   the question is... how can merely thinking be painful?
most mental health problems never ask this:
thinking is painful...
                                      isn't that what most melancholics
state, but with a more emotional language of
feelings and emotions?                  
             if the thought-***** is damaged...
then all thinking coming from this compartment of the brain
will be painful...
                               so what sort of paracetamol
do you take? it's not as easy as being prescribed
high-blood pressure pills...
                                      popping pills like that
you're only escaping a conscious moment of what
an automated ***** feels

i guess there are
some people
who just don’t realize
how preposterous they sound when
using social media.
yeah, maybe you’re one. no one
is safe from suspicion:
-the comedians (their own biggest fan types)
the witty commentators
                    jumping in from the far corner.
(you wonder how
someone who learnt every word they know
     from about six Archie comics is allowed to
use social networking)
-oh and the girls
                   who post new selfies
every day. (in fact there’s one,
i swear, posts so often
                      so regular
                                      i barely need a watch.
“here’s the three-fifteen cleavage shot.”
—she’s long since been hidden!)
and wait here’s that
fella who speaks out about injustices;
firecrackers taped in a doberman’s mouth,
which is awful, sick, repulsive—and bravo
for making the universe aware, i applaud thee,
but it’s the rambling included about what you’d do
if you ever caught them
(curbstomping, mutilating, beatings)
that gives
me goosebumps.
i don’t wanna see this kid’s mug in
the paper next week/point & say
“christ i knew it!”
..so maybe keep the ****** fantasy off the web, eh?

& then of course the weirdness
too weird to
properly recall
example:
an acquaintance's call for attention “i need a hug :(“
and the random girl
probably th’sister of a friend
(which is bizarre in its own right,
adding a friend's younger sibling..
but i
won’t bother delving
there tonight)
who replies:
“hey you should come here instead
and see the skunk that just came
by my window
if you wanna?”
—what is this absurdity?
and hey here’s an answer
to your original call:
internet hugs don’t work.
    computers don’t hug in binary, man.
0110101110101101111001010010101011011010110101110101010101
 ­                                        >—O—<

—i’ll never understand it.

Design of such perfection,
you offer no direction!
like a shell with no emotion,
with nothing of loves intention!

This flaw is like a missing limb,
leaving me floating in the loveless din.
clueless as to the approaching sin.
Victim to yet another comedians spin.

as you hear the orifices of space calling out to you
the ropes of time tenderly start embracing you
as you march out of all infinity
you see more than the trace of you

The universe sings to you
and a question begins with tune
beyond the multiverse see you the  original Creation Family?
And what's to say that that was the only Family?
As there is more than verse in song
where are the other chords of sing along?
The verse cries out in song a sing and sing but what of the bells of ring and ring

Would we be astounded to learn that the One True Source, the FATHER, that even He has a home
It was not all revealed when ruled in Rome
so how are we to dare to think that we aren't swimming in folly's foam?
1+1=3 in Binary, but Binary is not the only numerical scene
What if the FATHER has a brother or two?
What if The Source has more than one wife,
what if is what if
but “if” is enough for imagination
if wills that it is
for: "How Can I Think I Know if I do Not See What I Say"
who is the director rolling the film on display?

How do we make it out of time and space?
This tube that has us trapped in planes
not to say the Fairies haven't decorated
however the Grey and Lizards have doctored
beyond the Universal Emperors, we're told of one True King
and this is the True Light
the source of light and sound
but did you know of wind and smoke?
Do you that there's a place where this does not choke

Would you think that the multiverse or omniverse is just one country in a massive continent,
do you know of the potential creation in places that have no energy?
See you then the carpet and curtain
the ceiling that reveals this tapestry
if in fact we're an expanding atom, where has the scientist gone to?
Should we know the purpose of our creation impromptu?

Standing on the balcony of space, you learn that time and space are one but balance is none
Until we return home to the Source and with the Light we are One...
We'll then soon learn of the other numbers...

For if planets are dots then imagine the multiverse to be a ball
and what's more the clown is juggling more than one ball, and what's beyond is that it's a whole circuis
Geniuses or Comedians?

Miming only action is like mining fiction faces
A fraction found in fire can be the sum of holy stasis

ah... ha ha... **** never gets old...
i'll admit...
       liberal comedians
will forever outperform the libertarian
leaning right-wing commentators...
why?
  they have some nuanced knowledge
of boundaries...
fair enough... when the libertarian
commentators do their
   SJW accents...
    with pink-but-not-punk hairdos...
it's self-evident comedy...
it's not the sort of comedy
that involves thinking:
   well... that's reasonable,
if the highest form of reasonableness
is to enshrine free speech...
  sorry... that's just lazy...
if i'm going to make a **** joke,
i won't be making a joke,
but rather reciting, verbatim,
my grandfather's memory,
about the two SS-men dressed in black
manning an anti-aircraft outpost
in my home town...
   asking them...
  herr-bitte-bonbon!
the funny part is in the punctuation...
her never says it with a comma...
i.e. herr, bitte bonbon...
he still got the sweets...
         he added...
i ran back home, and put my glued
together hands under the tap...
yeah... all Nazis were inhuman zombies...
some gave sweets
to the children of the people
they were occupying...
but all bad, nonetheless...
still... i get edgy humor,
but sometimes it's just: enforced humor...
libertarian humor is sometimes
akin to canned laughter...
you're not supposed to laugh:
you're expected to laugh...
that's why liberal comedy is better,
in that it acknowledges
the constraints of comedy...
            it's authoritative humor...
and comedy needs as many
metaphorical comparisons
to psychological archetypes,
   as is required to dissect the constrained
number of ****** expressions...
i give the benefit of the doubt...
sure... sure thing...
say all the jokes you want...
but i sometimes abhor
the complexity of a Monty Python
and succumb to the simplistic genius
of Fawlty Towers...
    when i laugh:
i want an uncontrolled reaction...
giggles...
till the stomach aches...
   thinking about what i'm laughing
about, with an explanation to boot...
that's just bad...
      punchlines bad...
    i'm already more curious about
the madman who's, "apparently"
laughing at nothing in particular...
there's that...
        and there is the liberal humor...
with its constraints...
the orthodoxy of humor...
the orthodoxy of humor with its
canon of hubris...
  the proud look of: i know this is funny...
rather than this libertarian...
****, what's going look
of bewilderment...
          were we supposed to play
tennis with a squash ball,
and hit the squash ball with
a lacrosse stick?!
   and hit it so that it falls through
a basketball hoop?!
bill maher...
who the hell cares if he "thinks
he's smart... he's also *doubting that
he is, in the classical Cartesian sense...
sometimes... i just find...
that i find it hard to compensate
the intelligence involvement
    in producing a joke...
                i like constraints,
archetypal comic constraints...
          not everything is funny... oddly enough...
and enforcing omnipresent laughter
is worse than canned laughter.

We are the people we are
Far from the people we should be
Humor makes up the difference
In every uncomfortable instance
Humor I must know
To soften the blow
And make life enjoyable
Humor is always employable

Negativity carelessly creeps
From somewhere deep
I feel tragedy
Grabbing me
I must rhetorically escape
These problems will deflate
Once I receive a joke
After taking a ****
With familiar folks

We're all somewhat stand-up comedians
In front of our friends
The pros have no way of seeing them
So specificity we lend
It can be trite and true
Or bright and new
Curing the blues
To help get you through

To keep from constantly imagining
The endless amount of tragedy
I must have a sense of humor
To ignore the hectic rumors
Or the life ending tumors
Or the treacherous suitors
My only tools are words
And all my words are tools
Turning sages into fools
If they want to bring me down
My words can steal their crown

The albatross around my naked neck
Is my greatest source of comedy
Adding perspective to a stacked deck
Turning drama into Dramamine
Putting on a mask like Halloween
When the darkness follows me
Humor keeps me from wallowing
In my own self pity
I'd rather feel giddy

I hate myself so much sometimes
Humor can help remove that grime
Not getting rid of it completely
But not letting it cut so deeply
It's the only thing that can treat me
When life decides to beat me
I respond by feasting
On pain
And ******* out harmless humor
Which drains
The sensation of being a loser

That feeling you get when your friends laugh
That feeling you get when your friends clap
Like violent gunshots in the distance
Humor alleviates the agony of existence

ancient tongues were constructed on the basis of pure verbs... hence the spirit of tragedy reigning over them, taking them seriously... but modern tongues were constructed on the basis of pure nouns... hence the spirit of comedy reigning over them, taking them spontaneously: too many comedians... to few poets... too many comedians... too few poets... better find the Judases among your so called "feminists" than among us men... after all, there is something to be fathomed, an equilibrium, natural, rather than polarised by scientific guarantee... and never again was something as beautiful as a coliseum ever constructed as it was, in order to provide an aesthetic of decay of proof: that some thing were done in order to be remembered, rather than be popularised: duo sabbati finis quatro papilio non gloria... how eloquent our number of nouns, and yet our lead-caste frames, iron, solid, stiff... no Cleopatra would ever have cared to live beyond puberty in this "democratic" age... i don't know why i'm dragging myself through this through of *******, i would have drank with Mark Anthony sooner than i'd yawn as a greatly criticised movie worth 2 hours of my life that i'd had to see... all the better... two hours hid from the Spartan gymnasium that no one ever seemed to appreciate, given that there was no clarifying dogma.*

there be no truth to a rhymed saying suggesting a repeat,
for the love of god i'd try to replete
such love and such beauty to be repeated,
but there is none,
the arch triumphant that once greeted
us is no more, and never will be revised,
however much we wish to plagiarise,
look away from my heart....
look elsewhere, among Dante's pines...
among the hellish whirlwinds... look elsewhere,
i beseech you; for i am so blinded by
hate that i might as well we writing this to
my mother as i might to my  lover...
and my lover as my foremost spy of under-minded
heart... t trust the simple act of
arithmetic in the beating boom boom... boom boom...
for the womb of my unwise tread i'd return
to the haunted dynamic to joke in Irish...
had i only spoken Gaelic - and not the northern
grit of kindred Berlin...
then i too would entomb my mother in such
misery... but i dare not! Ave Eva...
yours in Pompeii, hushed a riddling of your disgrace,
once more reminded before the execution commence,
by no more begging, the riches of all of man prescribed
unto you... to squander, with all the illusions
of placebos begged for later in old age never asked for;
how strange then, to have made one life
so many, when that one life wanted to be one
among many... and to have churned a false sense of
retribution, giving more beauty to this world that ought
be given, with the already given....
as if encrypted to say originality once,
yet plagiarism twice... what life could have been
that your life is... and mine isn't, crescendo Abel...
to say: the able son is no more, so thus the canned hopes
of the once gifted abilities, so that i might be born,
away from Golgotha, away from the billionth credo.

The best actors, with the best directors and producers are in church.
We just play along to make it work.
We all have sinned during the week.
Then get in church and pray for a change.
Just to get out and do it again.

Only fooling ourselves and a few others.,
But not fooling God.
Scams and schemes he plays no part.

We all know those that holds position within church.
Mainly because others don't want the pressure.
Comedians jokes about them.
And we laugh.
Especially when they talk about the ministers ,sisters, elders and deacons.
Even the rabbi and the priest.
We all are actors of this earth.
Pushing on an image to please others.

The only real ones within the church, are the children.
After all, God has stated a child should lead us.
And they are the ones not to be called pretenders.

We have various actors ready to jump.
And claim they doing it in the name of the lord.

the oddity of it all, i can sound like a 70 year old, writing in 2016, by simply writing about 2004 - and that's the excuse everyone gives for lazy English text form: 2 (abc), 3 (def), 4 (ghi), 5 (jkl), 6 (mno), 7 (pqrs), 8 (tuv), 9 (wxyz) - where you had to press a button several times to get the right letter (even with spellcheck helping you shorten the digit-bag sequence) - but that's no excuse with digital phones and a complete keyboard... but that's how it looks, after only 12 years... i'm actually aged 70 given the advances of the technology advent... let's forget the technology of the 1990s... i've circled round and met up with people who collected vinyls... that's how old i am in respect to my buying habits... we're the silver-compact-vinyl kids: the ghouls of the 1960s, born in the 1980s and not getting down with the kids... and to readdress just two books: all that stream-of-consciousness made the latter end of Ulysses a bit like writing by candle-light... as was reading the plagiarism of the above stated in Sartre's iron in the soul... or as the puritans said: we're filling for at least a ¶ (pilcrow) to be inserted: not to mess up the idea of a river and "thinking aloud" where punctuation marks mean: stopping suddenly because you become self-conscious... i just needed a ****** bookmark! the monks at the time of Charlemagne used the ¶ quiet often, condensed bibles, ink was worth 20 camels and paper was worth 20 dresses for a queen... ah, the times when paper was as precious as silk... so the puritans condensed writing, they weren't as sparing in their inner feng shui - a room the size of St. Paul's... and two words in it: Jesus Christ... they were like modern day delivery guys, packaging words together, they didn't have the luxury to write paragraphs with the now established spacing afresh, i.e.:

            and Jimmy went up a ladder into the loft etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.
             Florence was making a cup of tea when she heard Jimmy yell: 'my long lost golf clubs!' etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.

i.e.

¶ and Jimmy went up a ladder into the loft etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc. etc.

alternatively the ¶ went out of fashion in the literary world, once writing became affordable and changed into a profiteering case of bravado... but i still think ¶ is a bit like using a clef.*

or how to keep one's intellectual integrity: have a drink or two,
and muster enough creative energy to use this encoding -
or... how to make poetry akin to computer
programming - a subtler way to encode
the now slothfully rising moon:
half of it, not full, nor scimitar crescent,
a half bitten honey biscuit, just above the forest
horizon, and the semi-detached houses
of English outer-suburbia - in a sense
transcendentalism, a box with many words
in it attributed to the cause,
as is the reason why Christianity became
the most schismatic religion that has ever
graced man's "good will" (ambiguity,
not an approximation) - in line with philosophical
whims of vogue: idealism, realism, transcendentalism,
existentialism, ism after ism after the Methodists
and the Baptists and other mongrels of current
affairs... already stated: populist Platonism
and the ransacked and burnt library of Alexandria...
yes, decidedly, poetry as a variation of
computer programming - although more akin
to: the tetragrammaton and the Noah's
checklist of paired onomatopoeia(s) (plural
form is underlined, Oxford hasn't picked up
the circumstance: there are neurotics out there
who'd send you to the guillotine for not
updating "spelling mistakes" that aren't
"spelling mistakes" quickly enough!) -
to the cause or as signatures of being easily
recognisable as: yes, that's that... a moustache
and a bowler hat...            alternatively
watch a stand-up show by Miranda -
the very typical English-ness inside out:
hysterical from the word go... the ministry of
funny walk from Monty Python ***
                      the two walks at the airport -
or the trip-up on skewed pavement slabs
checking the impromptu socially acceptable
version of the other seeing us -
comedians do it oh so well: the inside-out,
stern exterior, boy ******* a thumb and relating
to a blanket as if it were an umbilical chord...
what a tightly knit individual...
                          made complete with about a dozen
patches...
                       but it is! it is! it really is already
ready to be likened to computer programming,
perhaps there's no <xerox> or other commands,
but poetry deals with encoding sounds,
no man can encode a proper roar of a lion
or a squirt of a skunk, that's sheer travesty that
so many people can actually muster enough
encouragement to encode these sounds...
i imagine a world where we don't even care
to write knock, and knock on a piece of wood
and a noumenon is born, the sound isn't noted
down, it remains a thing in itself (synonyms,
in italics) - it's probably akin to getting a tattoo,
great if you have a short-term memory loss
like that guy in Memento... but it's going to
be hard to displace knock-knock -
again this is already an approximation -
onomatopoeia upon onomatopoeia -
it doesn't even sound akin or properly dressed
to mention Plato's theory of forms -
sounds can be forms: apparently they're waves...
no waves are forms (shapes) -
or that demigod who fell in love with his shadow,
rather than his image reflected in a lake,
he fell in love: because it gave him enhanced reflexes...
every single time... boom... shadow... boom...
shadow... and so much of language goes into
these nonsensical types of encoding -
blah for: talking a lot -
                                           hmm - when negatively
pondering something -
                                            i believe that
there should be a grammatical elevation of the onomatopoeia
to the status of nouns, verbs etc. -
                           but it is, it is, it really is
like computer programming,
               above and beyond the sheltering vacuum -
how would we ever write a word to encode the
sound of lightning, or a volcano erupting,
or the earth spinning - in these areas i find god -
       i will find man in these areas:
but i'll be hinged on mathematical explanation:
and mathematics is pure optics -
                       so what that we can write one and write
1, write two and write 2, three and 3, four and 4 -
    by now we can write to, too, free and for...
and this is just the start -
                             by acknowledging onomatopoeia
for something, we acknowledge our limitation
of encoding something in that realm -
this inability gave us the emergence of nouns -
   sooner or later when someone started
talking about an earthquake... a litmus test of:
brr grrm boom bah dobble aah! etc.
we got the picture - and why would a monkey
evolve from its conscious-sleep reservoir
to say just as much as with a simple grunt and ooh -
actually, some onomatopoeia(s) became sophisticated -
a grunt is a sophisticated onomatopoeia -
       as is weeping and crying and shouting -
as is shooing (or to shoo) -
well, that's how i see it... poetry as reality programming -
since there's more than just a computer -
at the moment it just resembles a game of
whack-a-mole -                 although there's more than
the mere 26 primary moles -
      and all this talk does relate to something,
something very important at the beginning of the
20th century... well, a century later, and something
similar is being discussed... Ivan Bunin?
noble prize winner from 1933, the first russian to do so...
  anyway... this goes beyond his concerns...
his concerns were akin to that dud i made
with the word mruwka -
                               personally? i feel that the "correct"
version of the word is aesthetically displeasing -
and anyone who says otherwise treats orthography
not as an aesthetic question, but a question
of rubrics and regime - so there we have the "correct"
version mrówka                               (ant)       -
anyone agree with me? well, the English language
doesn't have any concerns for orthographic
regulation - it has excessive spelling and that's that -
what bothered Ivan was the Bolsheviks rewriting
orthographic rules... the word in question?
izvestia - that really peeved him off...
                      everyone in intellectual circles was
disturbed by the changes (can't recall the original) -
but the changes were approved by the Russian Academy of
Sciences (immediately before the revolution) -
there would have been any dispute about the "evolution"
in orthographic terms if done prior to Feb. 1917 -
the war postponed the changes, and with the Bolsheviks
in power... then obviously the suspicion...
   now... such changes are but farts in hurricanes
in comparison with what happened in the realm of English...
i mean, ****'s sake, we're talking minor aesthetic tweaks
here and there - the changes still encompass the form
that's understood by the ear, and it's only a matter of
taste where you write the word ant as either mruwka
or mrówka - well, mind you, i'm already asking
for the incorporation of the Czech š (sz) and č (cz) -
but what's happening in English... my god: it's terrifying!
all these acronyms? all these emoticons?
        i know that English journalists are in favour of
:) and :( and ;) ;) [wink wink] - and next thing you know:
you're talking to a monkey... you soon realise:
the deaf have nurtured a superior system of communication,
as have the blind than these poor, healthy, ably nimble
*******...                   how they're superior, i don't know,
and in all honest? don't care...
         for goodness' sake: a heard a story that a girl
wrote her g.c.s.e. English language paper in text format:
   e.g. c (see) u (you) l8r (later)          -
now you see why i think that poetry is like computer
programming?
these people are scripts from a classical software program
that looks something like: 3;r/d]]aq"pk.0    etc.    
it's a complete and utter mess!
                         fair enough saying: O Shakespeare O
Milton... those guys are turning in their graves...
and they ain't showering the English language with
graces mind you: they're calling it the new
***** & Gomorrah - and it's not England was the sole
inheritor of the computer -
                                       that's what not having
diacritical accessories does to you...
                             you get hacked...
and this... pretty much... is a form of a hack:
you'll wake up tomorrow with a pair of sunglasses
or think you're looking down a microscope;
i swear to god...       me and Ivan are just laughing...
he's not drinking, i'm drinking, but we share
the same intuitive devices - the same puppet strings
pulled him in 1919 as they are pulling me in 2016...
the same ****** trials of a variation of zoology -
some look at monkey behaviour,
            others look at how language is cradled in people:
and i'm not even going to bother
elaborating on anything by Chomsky -
which brings me to the following conclusion
(back to Miranda) - i don't believe in fame apparent,
fame apparent, as in: tabloid crap and c.c.t.v.
and 20 nannies and 50 bathrooms, and not being
recognised wearing a virtual reality gear when walking
down a street when otherwise imprisoned on
a television screen rewind - that's not fame,
that's tyranny under the masses -
                         i don't believe in it... which answers
one famous English scientist's question:
why does posthumous fame exist?
                                    it's like that Camus question
about suicide - well... i guess it's a question of
endurance... a bit like a fail-safe mechanism about
why the pyramids are still standing even though
they experienced so much weathering by the elements -
well, as endurance has it: posthumous fame is
filled by introverts...
                                          i dare you to name that
famous Bolshoi ballet dancer, or that famous 1930s
actor or actress... they're part of the extrovert side of
what's called "fame" - but that's only a minor point
i wanted to make... the real zest i already explained -
ah crap, summary in maxim:
   the concept of modern fame is the result of a god
that has been attributed such qualities as omnipresence...
               well, aren't modern celebrities... a bit like that?

the ones that **** tend to deem those that talk ***** to be without a ****... mr. censor, please, i do not come between your ******* and your take on eating stake... so, can you please retract from "moralising" me in terms of vocab? let me **** an invisible ***** with my tongue, while i allow you to keep your gynocentric whoop-de-la-outlandish fetishes... don't school me... i've had my schooling, a real society doesn't school men beyond the appropriate age of being schooled... please don't suggest a reinvention of a ******* schoolyard; vocabulary adheres to no notion, of being deemed a / made into a monopoly.*

i hate these people, well, comics,
they always start off a joke:
a friend of mine... who's muslim...
mate... you don't have a muslim
"friend" within a mile strong radius...
sand-****** / camel-jockey ref.?
schoolyard ****,
spoken by a Hindu...
   he wasn't my friend, and never
will be, and i will never expect
the excuse of a muslim "fwend"
to tell a joke...
                 can't believe these people
turned into gnats rather than
comedians...
i'm like a cow imitating
a *torero" with a red cape "that's" its tail...
the excuse of having a friend,
that you don't actually have,
to simply tell a joke and cushion
the offended police? ain't working.
just today i was walking if a nekken-ekken
bottle and a police car stopped on
the street:
          i have to admit, a little nervous,
since drinking alcohol in public
in england is illegal,
so the cop in the car asked me:
did you call the police?
no, i'm just passing through.
all i can think of is an angry woman
wasting the police budget
describing me as an angry drunk
throwing beer bottles in the air...
while breaking the law:
texting while driving...
               the police seem to be nibbling
on my toes...
  i don't mind them, i find them
to be the most agreeable type of people...
i get to drink a bottle of beer
and never get harassed...
     unless in the vicinity of a public
house that sells alcohol...
     i still don't get the jokes
by comics that reference having
"friends"... stop bullshitting and just say
that there's a pre-punch line of:
     i don't actually have a muslim friend,
but it'll sound better if i "have" one,
so you can forgive the joke...
       sand-****** and camel-jockey are
actually Hindu terms derived from
the schoolyard...
                me? i'm just borrowing...
i had muslim friends, once upon a time,
but then that once upon a time
turned into: the reality of, right now
and crispy Jeeves: no, not anymore.
                            why fake it?
oh, i have this muslim friend...
   the stereotype stings, but it's true:
i had a jamaican "friend",
he dealt me the illegal, psychotic
soros skunk...
                             mind you,
he also asked me to teach his daufghter
layla (acoustic) on the guitar...
            yeah, "friend"...
               do we really have to be
so ******* friendly all the time to
merely tell a joke?
these comedians, who are they fooling?
you're as much friend with a muslim
as i am with a, ******* ostrich...
     and pigs will fly... yeah:
i've made a bet on that improbability...
watch me rein in the millions of cooties,
******* skint rats...
                      anorexia didn't evolve
past "entertaining" women, rodents would
know.
                 why is it suddenly o.k. to
tell a joke flaking it over with a:
so i have this friend...
                            bash it silly with
a bare fist or a silly-glove that's designed
to produce the plum lip smacker version
of a botox insertion...
        pucker... plum lip to lip balm kiss;
next time i believe these comedians
i'll have a ******* orangutan on a leash
*****-******* a chimp, calling it: Nancy.

Humane Society animals need a helping hand. Vegans should use music to influence the fans. Someday I want to see Ireland.
Mermaids were seen 3000 feet under Greenland.
Green is the color of money.
For a sugar daddy & their honey.
Some comedians just aren't funny.
Mild to moderate intelligence is a dummy.
I will never be a ******* bunny.
Don't waste years wondering why.
Do not shed a single tear or cry.
Don't allow anyone to take your life, or have you banned.
Some history can't be out ran.
You don't need to form a secret clan.
No I still ain't got a man.
You know my past, present, & future is ******.
My enemy never gets slammed.
I will give you a hint.
I love leopard print.
I like fabrics that don't lint.
The condition of my possessions are mint.
At Starbucks I like frappucinos with peppermint.
Circumstances get weird.
Guys look ugly with a beard.

Pain really hurts. My co workers treat me like dirt

© Harmony Sapphire . All rights reserved,

The comedian is depressed—
Irony at its peak.
People cannot see the lies
Whenever she starts to speak.

The comedian is depressed.
Her smiles are not her own.
Day and night pass by and by,
Her house is not a home.

The comedian is depressed,
But the audience cannot tell.
In the end that's all that matters,
That, and if you perform well.

The comedian is depressed,
Head filled with gray and blue.
You cannot know the full extent
Until you acknowledge that it's true.

The comedian is depressed,
Each laugh is fleeting, at most.
Original thoughts inside her head
Tied her to a whipping post.

The comedians are depressed,
And more are going away.
How much longer till people think
To ask if we're okay?

You've got a palpable penchant  for being a legend
And guilt will start planning my  grave
Rock n roll
An article to fit the cover and first page
          
          You want a ****** poster already

 Battered comedians wearing stripper glitter,
marching to an imagined white powder      cathedral
  
You wanted the life
You wanted fame for a wife

A seedy hotel managed by mold and off brand gelatin
Shut the **** up
Instability is what the limelight is selling
Shut the **** up and save me

Behind social media
The secrets no one knows

The love that's shared by the hands that daddy issues uphold

The wreck-less sacrifices of greedy needs
Please hide our endless affection from a callous coliseum consumed public and save me

Dear boy with the STL tattoo,

I still see your face in the people I meet.
I hear your voice in comedians on tv.
My heart breaks at Eminem.
And let me say, you're much much better than him.


Dear boy with the broken heart,

I never meant to make you cry.
I never saw this coming.
It was just a meeting of chance and time.
I still love you with my whole heart,
I wish you'd understand. Just because
we're not in love, doesn't mean you're
not my best friend.


Dear boy who is my best friend,

Even though we may not be near,
or talking, or laughing, or sharing our tears.
Even though you scratch at me,
I'll always be here for your tired eyes.
Even though I make mistakes,
I beg that you will do the same.


Dear boy with the world in his hands,

Don't you see what you can be?
There is so much locked inside of you
that I don't even see how you can
manage to breathe.


Dear boy who I know I'm losing,

Please remember to be safe.
Remember when the world gets dark,
that a match can like your way.
Please try to quit smoking, and be careful
with the drugs. I only worry because
I care. I'm sorry that's not enough.

For years it's been my  defense my escape and my prison
all in one.
It's a drug I can and will never kick.
I wield it as a wepon sharper than any razor none
could ever hold.

But it's a love hate relationship twisted in it's
lack of perfection  harsh edges none can
understand but I.

But in it I find isolation in others happiness I find
none of my own and like any drug its high slowly drains you
yet no matter your best efforts to escape it your always
a ****** after that fix.

I've taken to the stage as easy as breathing
and found it simple to draw there laughter.
Happiness is a splendid vice i deal it often yet
In jokes we show are fears  are weakness is on display
for the mocking of others.

Why do I struggle with masks when my own face is but a stranger
to me?
From the stage im the fool by apearence yet I control
every thought  a craftsman  in laughter  my job
i understand better than any other.

Yet I yern to be more than a teller of jokes.
It's to easy at times not that I want to seem
like a ego mainac  but my job I know well.

Often we see the comedians but seldom do we see the misreble
******* behind the jokes.
Maybe were madmen lunatics in a asylum
so happily on display.

The laughter is the comfort and for a moment it heals.
You feel it like a drug it it flows through your veins.
You take people outta there misery if only for a second
and thats the reward there happines is but my gold in thought.

But any role can become a trap.
For no one cares to hear a fools thought.
So you drown in other vices make light of your ******* up past.

And with any  exceptance in life it changes you.
People treat you diffrent for they see the act not the person.
Soon you cant even see yourself anymore.

Relationships turn sour.
Welcome strangers  who thirst for fun replace friends
And the more you succeed the further away you become.

So you drown in ***** or dose in pills  
Share moments you can barely recall.
Hide behind dark glasse's talk to women who claim
to want a glimpse but you both are just junkies
yerning for that fix.

But to be close if only for a moment is a
bitter sweet  dream cast on a nightmares
wing.

But there's always someone who can see past your *******.
but no matter how strong the love the stage and the laughter
are a poisen few can survive.

For how can you love the man who lives a double life?
Who's loved by many and understood by few if
even himself.

Everytime I get up there it's a sacrfice a road ive choosen
with no set reward.
My love for one can never match the  love of many.

It's more than joke ,Im more than a comedian,
Yet im less off a person after the lights fade.
Nothing can match that fix of the stage.

Pain ,Isolation the loss of yourself  and everyone you ever
cared for  thoose my friends are the setbacks of humor.

eh... i felt benevolent today: i was making some beef doner kebabs with fresh yeast buns... egg + sprinkle of nigella & sesame seeds on top... an onion and parsley (sumac) salad... a hot sauce a garlic & dill and cucumber white sauce... blah blah... i was missing the red onions and parsley... so i walked for a minute to my local co-op... headphones in... so i wasn't going to say hello... to... what can be best described as a gentle soul... no... not a ******.. ******... a genuine gentle soul... a shy man... who... last time i heard: has five children... and there he is... day in... day out... standing outside the shop with the copy of the Big Issue (a charity magazine that supposedly helps the homeless)... some people buy him soft drinks... some people buy him snacks... eh... i felt benevolent today... plus i already touched his shoulder without saying hello... so i asked for £5 cashback and gave it to him... not that it made my feel any better than i was already feeling... there's that... 'god bless'...

there's that and there's this...
we live with these, "people": i don't even think they're people...
more like... itches... itchy things...
mosquitos... beside parasites...
sociopaths most certainly...
   schadenfreude gagging entries...
i can usually put a face to something...
when watching a movie i play this game
of remembering what was the last
movie i saw with the actor or actress...
i know there are monsters in society...
but i hardly thought about
these: "comedians" that can't tell a joke...
how would it stand in court:
conspiracy to inflict harm?
i still don't know how many days
i rode my bicycle without spotting that
something was wrong:
maybe yesterday... while hiding full
speed without holding the handlebars...
the front wheel started to "wobble":
i didn't think much of it...
but today i tested the front breaks...
nudge-nudge... the wheel was...
this close || to coming off...
   so i checked...
  ah... someone managed to... loosen
the bolts...
once upon a time you'd need
tools to tighten the nuts and bolts
of the wheel to the frame...
now... there's this small-handle that you turn
and turn and then lock into a desired
tightness that keeps the wheel to the frame...
what the ****?
i can't cycle to  supermarket... lock my bicycle
buy my wine and pepsi
and... what? bother myself by checking
if the bicycle is: "tight" on all the connected parts?!
i mean: it's not the first time someone tried
to take my life:
first time? the nurse in the hospital who
almost choked me to death because
i was born with a Chernobyl mark on my back...
so my heart inflated...
eh... the hernia didn't help either...
i survived that...
but my heart inflating didn't exactly give
me... a heart to love random strangers...
by now i'd take a knife in the back...
while i might turn around and grab my attacker
and hold him dear and whisper:
i love you into his ear... because as i once
said to a colt who screamed at me
outside a supermarket:
i have a death-wish...
   he gave me a fiver and asked me to buy
him some *****... he was accompanied
by a girl and a guy she was *******...
i bought him a litre of *****...
how mad he was...
he asked for 35cl... and he shouted and shouted
his uncle was going to put me straight:
i placed the litre of ***** on the ground
and told him: shout all you want:
i have a death-wish... you want a death-wish?
oddly enough he, the girl and the guy she was
******* ran away and didn't take
the freely standing bottle...
it's a bit different when you're buying
liquor for a group of colts...
you're the next best thing they have to an uncle...
who the hell walks up to a chained bicycle
and... loosens up the bolts on the front wheel...
oh... it wasn't the back wheel...
this "comedian" knew what he / she was
doing... i'd be thrown in a spectacular
fashion: forward... to the side...
what if i was travelling at high speed in between
traffic... the wheel would come off
and i'd be thrown under a car...
ha ha... fan-e... very ******* funny...
but someone else would be charged with manslaughter...
the police might find fingerprints
on the pieces of the bicycle...
******* Nimrods... ****** humour...
i'm shaking merely thinking i can't perform
telekinesis / telepathy with a desire to...
put him / her into an iron maiden...
to put his / her hand into a *** of boiling water...
cut it off and subsequently feed him / her
the poaching!
what if i were the cause of someone else's
manslaughter...
i can't just cycle to the supermarket and go about
my business... if i had a car i'd
be content with my "ceramics" being treated
with a key...
hell: key the frame of my bicycle... steal the wheel
while you're at it...
but... loosen the bolts so that i might...
my head's not big enough to entertain these thoughts...
perhaps i should have been born with
a sq. head...
for ****'s sake...    NIMORDS! INBREDS!
these aren't people...
if they were things akin to doors i'd love
to knock-knock on them:
no... personally? i just want to castrate them...
they'd be better off castrated...
the guillotine would be too good for them...
by a miracle i tightened that wheel back
to its proper repetition...
what next: he or she started to kick my mode of
transit? jealousy... i rather own a bicycle
than a car? is... that it?
half-wits... mother-*******-retards...
there's that common saying:
afraid to hurt strangers...
           now i'm charged with bile and if it's not bile
then it better be acid...
who does that? massive, *******: EPIC fail...
of seeing someone fall of a bicycle:
it's not a wheelchair... genius...
well... that's sorted: perhaps when i was younger
i might have listened to Bon Jovi love songs...
bed or roses...
now i look at everyone as suspect:
i'm not even paranoid: or will be...
   let's just pretend we're in this project: life
together... we're not...
     we're not going to be...
i don't care if the ******* Dalai Lama comes knocking...
same ****: different cover...
dieselbe scheiße: anders deckel...

if i'm going to be killed: i expect nothing less
than an assassination:
i'm not going to divulge into my death
as if it were an accident... ******* Nimrods...
tease me with death
and allocate however many chances
you get... in no quick succession that
you treated Rasputin with...
sorry if i can get a hard-on with a *******
while you're still idle-hands...
**** finger and tongue with your missus ****!

mateo: calm down: no... i will not calm down!
what if my wheel came off while
i was charging down the A12... and someone
might have been charged with manslaughter?
i'll calm down...
when i poach his or her hand
and later feed it back to them!
to hell with merely cutting it off...
i'd flay: i'd skin... i'd...
do more than my imagination right now allows...

oh i wasn't lucky: i'm just not married yet:
given death ms.,
   half a biscuit is basking in loneliness
in the sky: the constellations came...
i'm fully charged heaving a breath that
would burn a tortoise's shell...

keep imagining it:
this little ****** whether he or she...
i'd poach their hand and later
watch them eat it...
if they'd pass out:
i'd give them a shot of adrenaline mixed with
amphetamines:
just to keep them awake...
they have to be awake for coming
to the end of their... "joke":

mateo: relax... i'm relaxed... look at me...
taking  diarrhoea sort of whim
of what ought to be loath solving no. 12,479
of a su doku puzzle...

here's the original, wait... let me lookalike
to a sq.... spacing can be a *****...

0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0     ­ 0
0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0
0   ­   0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0
0      0   ­   0      0      0      0      0      0      0
0      0      0   ­   0      0      0      0      0      0
0      0      0      0   ­   0      0      0      0      0
0      0      0      0      0   ­   0      0      0      0
0      0      0      0      0      0   ­   0      0      0
0      0      0      0      0      0      0   ­   0      0

clearly that's proper spacing...
don't **** with me...
i'll be nice: until i start to imagine your hand
being poached and forcing you to eat it!

this is the original;

0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0    ­  0
4      0      0      6      0      0      5      0      0
0  ­    9      3      0      5      0      0      1      0
0      0  ­    0      0      0      0      0      0      0
3      0      0  ­    1      9      0      6      0      0
9      6      8      0  ­    7      0      0      4      0
6      5      0      9      0  ­    0      4      0      0
0      0      9      5      0      0  ­    3      0      0
1      0      2      8      6      0      0  ­    9      0

what am i... a makeshift carboot once a nerd
second time a: loved up...
hype? cant you write mathematics
with letters?
algebra: sure thing...
******* Nimrods... can't do a job proper..
half-breeds: inbreeding
cousin H'arab question marks...
0         0"people"... less than things...
at least i'd want to knock on a door...
these people i just want to mull with
a stampede... little gherkin **** offs...

how does that saying go:
i came cross a woman
and a tornado:
sure as **** the tornado didn't leave me questioning
my masculinity... or that i might be a walk abortion:
glad to know all the future mothers and their sons...
rather walk into a storm than love
a woman... at least: her mother...
can be less: teasing...
most obvious and...
n'ah... i'd prefer...
oh wait... she's not into blonde haired guys...
she's a blonde...
sure... i'm into Turkic raven haired types...
i'm into: Calypso mongrel
                mullattes...
good to know: she's not into me:
i'm not into her... shout and welcome
all those in-between copper-necking that's
to come: what do "we" call them?
when it's diluted?
aspiring Pakistani?
give it two generations...
give it enough dilution...
the supposed authority genes will fade...

a tale of two-number quests...
what's in brackets out to be either:
superscript or... "squared":
hello: the earth is "flat":
fastened to some spaghetti imitating shoelaces... no?

0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0      0
4 ­     0      0      6      0      0      5      0      0
0      9 ­     3      0      5      0      0      1      0
0      0      0 ­     0      0      0      0      0      0
3      0      0      1 ­     9      0      6      0      0
9      6      8      0      7 ­     0      0      4      0
6      5      0      9      0      0 ­     4      0      0
0      0      9      5      0      0      3 ­     0      0
1      0      2      8      6      0      0      9 ­     0

let me gives you a map of this flat flat world....
i couldn't find the proper, superscript...
hence some... "details" in brackets...
here's the map:

look at the brackets... wait: don't look
at them... (revised with superscript)

5¹³     8⁴⁰     6⁸       7³⁷     1⁵¹     9⁵⁰     2⁴²     3⁴⁷     4¹⁵
4⁰      2³⁹     1²³      6⁰      8⁴¹     3⁴⁹      5⁰      7⁴⁶­     9⁴⁸
7²⁵      9⁰      3⁰      4¹⁶      5⁰      2²⁶      8²⁴  ­    1⁰      6⁴
2²⁷     1²²     5²¹     3³³     4¹⁷      6¹¹     9⁴³      8⁴⁴     7⁴⁵
3⁰      7²⁸     4¹⁸      1⁰      9⁰      8¹⁹      6⁰      5²⁰      2²⁹
9⁰      6⁰­      8⁰       2³²      7⁰      5¹⁴     1³⁸      4⁰      3³⁴
6⁰      5⁰      7⁴       9⁰      3⁵³      1⁵²      4⁰      2³⁰      8³⁶
8³      4²      ­9⁰       5⁰      2³¹      7¹²      3⁰      6¹⁰      1³⁵
1⁰      3¹      ­2⁰       8⁰      6⁰       4³       7⁷       9⁰       5⁶

such the narrative...  i'll be relaxed:
poaching the hand of one of these and then feeding
it back to then: to hell with your Christianity and love...
your civilised state of
keeping a pacified argument...
no: you experience this sort of *******:
first... come back to me... and tell me: i hope:
otherwise!